journey east: day 9

I don't have a journal entry for June 10, 2006. I did stuff though, so the following is the best I can recollect from that day.

It was a beautiful morning. Lurking above us to the north, Mount Field glowed warmly in the morning sun. There was little in the way of cloud in the sky, and I was itching to pack up the site and hit the road. Neither myself nor Greg and Derek, who were driving to Greg's cottage near Vernon, had a long day of travelling ahead of us, so we opted to go for one last hike in the morning.

After cramming all our gear in our vehicles - Derek's jeep oozed camping stuff from every available crevice - we drove wast to the park boundary and the trail head for Wapta Falls. This would be the least intensive hike of any of the trails we had been on in our three years of camping. A couple of kilometres of graded trail that looked suspiciously like an old road, followed by a short walk in the woods, and Greg and I - Derek remained with the gear oozing jeep - found ourselves at Wapta Falls. We could hear the falls long before we saw them, and when we saw them finally it was an impressive sight.


Wapta Falls.

In the past I've mostly spent time in the mountains in the latter part of the summer, usually August and September. Here I was though and spring wasn't even officially over for another two weeks. All the flowing water was flowing harder, faster, whiter and louder than I had experienced before. It was grand.

At Wapta Falls there is a berm of debris or stone at the base of the falls. Footpaths wind around its base and criss-cross their way to a slightly flattened patch at the very top of it. Later in the season, when most of the snow has melted and the Kicking Horse River is running a little slower and not so high, visitors to the falls will be able to walk right out to the berm. Looking down on this wedge of stone set in the pounding mists of the falls I wanted to stand at the apex of the trail and feel the wet wind pass me. Another reason to return.

A short while later we were back at the parking lot. Our departure was devoid of maudlin moments. We agreed the past three years of hiking had been fabulous and pledged to do more, vowing to meet the following summer in Newfoundland - which is just a couple of months away. Turning out of the parking lot was odd. Derek and Greg turned west and I watched them disappear down the highway before I turned east. I was headed back toward Field, but didn't get far before pulling the car onto the shoulder of the highway.


You go west, I'll go east. See you in a year.

A couple years ago Parks Canada did a controlled burn in the Hoodoo Creek area of the park. The campground had been closed for a few seasons and the trees burned along the mountain side above it left a remarkable pattern. I think forest fires are one of the least understood natural events that occur in forests. They mark renewal. They also make for wonderful landscapes. Meaghan and I drove through Yellowstone National Park a decade after it was ravaged by a massive forest fire, and it was one of the most remarkable trips I have ever been on. It doesn't take long for life to fill the charred void left by flames. I wanted to hike the Hoodoo trail, but park staff said the area was still closed for the season. Sometimes I wish I was a bit more of a bad-ass.


Result of a controlled burn at Hoodoo Creek.

I was off again, heading toward Field, toward Alberta, toward the East Coast. I stopped one last time at the side of the road at Field. I didn't want to leave. My time in Yoho was a diversion from the reality I was on a one way trip away from Vancouver and everything I had know for the past 10 years. It hadn't been difficult leaving the city, but this was something else. I didn't want to leave the mountains. It broke my heart.

Soon enough I was passing a giant Alberta sized sign welcoming me to that province and a short time later I was in Banff. The town of Banff never really interested me. I'm not a big fan of hordes of tourists and even this early in the season it was chock-a-block full of people from away, albeit I was one of them, but I admit that begrudgingly. I wanted to visit the place where it all started. Cave and Basin National Historic Site is where the first national park was established in the country. Its genesis came from the discovery by a Canadian Pacific Railway construction worker of a cave and a hotspring in Banff. Two years later, in 1885, the area was officially designated a national park. Rocky Mountains Park later became Banff National Park.

The basin is a rather unremarkable stone depression at the base of a mountain. The stone is yellowish in colour and the surface of the water is covered in a bulbous layer of algea. It must have taken a truly entrepreneurial imagination to think it could be cleaned up enough to entice high paying tourists to take a dip in its scummy warm waters. Somehow they made it work.


The cave was quite remarkable. The room was lit by sun coming through a hole in the roof. It created one of those god-like shafts of light that are usually accompanied by a choir singing 'ahhh.'

The remarkable part of the site though is the cave. After paying my seven or nine dollar entry fee, which I never have a problem paying when it's a national park or some other not-for-profit venture, I stepped into a long shallow cave that led slightly upward. As with death, there was light at the end of the tunnel and it opened up into a larger space with a pool of water to one side and hole in the ceiling through which a shaft of sun poured. The sunbeam was focused on a man sitting on a wooden bench in one corner of the cave. I don't think I could have timed my trip better.

I hit the road again, with Lethbridge on my mind. A look at the map showed a seasonal road that ran north/south at the foot of the mountains. I turned off the Trans Canada and started to follow it. Have you ever had one of those nagging feelings that the sign you just passed, the one you glanced at but didn't really absorb, deserved to be absorbed? I had that feeling a few kilometres down the road, so I turned around to have a close look at the sign. Boy, that was a time saver. The sign said the highway was closed at the 56 kilometre mark. There was no through traffic.

Back on track I took a more direct and familiar route to Lethbridge. Along the way I stopped in at Fort MacLeod to pick up some post cards. Meaghan and I had been through this area the year before so things were feeling fairly familiar. It was getting late in the day though and not many places were open. I stopped in at a restaurant to take care of a ready to explode bladder and asked a local where I might find a store that sold touristy stuff. I was sent to the Greyhound Depot. Right. It was closed but gave me a great photo opportunity. I eventually found postcards and within 40 minutes I was knocking on Heather and Barry's door in Lethbridge. Yehaa.

journey east: day 8

This entry marks the last full day of our trip to Yoho and my last full day in British Columbia. Reading back through the journal I couldn't have asked for this day to have started in a better place. Yoho seems to be a fairly small park when compared to its more glorified sister mountain-parks like Banff and Jasper, but it packs quite a bit of punch into its small area. Lake O'Hara is just one of the places in the park that stands out, regardless of the season.

June 9, 2006

I made it through the night in the hut quite nicely, although it was probably the most fitful night yet. The fire burned through the night and during moments of sleeplessness I would untuck myself from the deliciously warm and cozy confines of my sleeping bag and throw as large a piece of wood on the fire as the little stove could handle.

Part of my sleeplessness stemmed from the knowledge I was bedding down in what is essentially a kitchen. Sure it hasn't been used much in the past few months, but do the bears know that?

I prefer sleeping in a tent to sleeping in the open. My understanding of bears and tents is that bears are confused by tents. They just don't get them and for the most part leave them alone. In the cooking shelter, and I stress the cooking part of that, I was painfully aware that I was sleeping among scents of yummy. What I needed was an early warning system. There were shovels and other long handled tools about. I strategically placed them in the doorway of the shelter. It was my hope that should a hungry just awoken from a long winter nap grizzly happen upon me I would have enough time to wake up for the dining experience as it blundered through my nest of tools. And I slept with a can of bear spray under my pillow.

We tried to hike to Lake Opabin this morning, but snow at Opabin Plateau kept us from getting more than half a kilometre from the lake. The hiking today was wet. It was a fine drizzle that didn't really seem to fall. It just lingered in the air soaking everything that passed through it. The rain from last night made the remaining snow cornices heavy and we were treated to an avalanche on our journey back to the campsite. The whole time we were in the area no more than ten minutes would pass without the hearing the crack and roar of snow and ice tumbling down mountain faces. Low clouds kept us from seeing all but the one.

We hiked in silence for most of the morning. The area leading to Opabin Plateau deserved the silence. The sound of avalanches and ice falls constantly thundered through the valley. For the most part the action was hidden in a shroud of clouds. It wasn't until our hike that I realized the sounds I had heard in the night was that of avalanches. I thought all the rain had brought a thunder storm with it.

The higher we climbed and farther into the valley we hiked, the deeper and more impenetrable the snow became. Further limiting our progress was the amount of melt water run off forming pools and travelling in streams hidden beneath the snow. The dominant tree in the area was the Larch. Their needles turned orange littered the snow beneath their branches. It was a beautiful display of colour in such a monochrome landscape.

We visited the Alpine Club of Canada hut at O'Hara. We were greeted by a not-so-shy marmot and a couple of whiskey-jacks. I'd like to come back at this time of year again to take pictures. The Opabin Plateau was beautiful. btw - Oesa is Sioux for ice: a fitting name considering its namesake lake we visited yesterday was mostly covered in it.

Like the hike up, the hike back down to the parking lot was uneventful. Between the kilometre two and kilometre one distance markers I counted paces. 1,111. Unbeknownst to me Greg did the same thing for the last kilometre, but stopped when he reached 1,000. He figures he was a couple hundred metres shy of the parking lot. That's what boredom does to you.

When we got to the bottom - I was there first - I propped my bag on the narrow shelf of a sheltered information kiosk and leaned my hiking pole beneath it. I had to pee. As I walked back to the kiosk my bag leapt from the shelf and crushed my hiking pole. It was bent two-thirds of the way down. Damn. I guess I need to get a new pole.

Our final night at Kicking Horse, regrettably, was without a fire. Tired and cold after our day's journey we settled at a picnic table in one of the campground's shelters. We drank beer and played Yahtzee for most of the night. Despite the absence of a fire it was a delightful end to our tour of Yoho National Park. I couldn't have asked for more. Besides, I won four of nine games, rolled five Yahtzees, and managed a high score of 321. Yahoo.


Look at those scores. I throw my gauntlet down, for I am the Yahtzee King.

Tonight is the last night I will spend in British Columbia for a long time to come. It's not a night without regrets, though they are small. I move to Fredericton, on the whole, without regret. Meaghan and I have a future together that will be better served living in Fredericton than in Vancouver. However, there is so much of this province I have left unexplored. Likely 95 per cent of it. I guess I'll have to come back sometime.

journey east: day 7

hello. No photos today. We left a tent and a car at our Kicking Horse campground site and headed off to Lake O'Hara. The weather wasn't great so I left my camera in the trunk. The only record of our trip into the area is my memory, my journal, and a few photos taken by Derek (I'm glad you got a new camera Derek.)

June 8, 2006

Finally, we packed up our stuff, put it on our backs, and went for a long, heavily-burdened hike. We went off to Lake O'Hara for the night. This is my second time here. The first time was a few years ago with Meaghan. Everything is different this time, but the same. The mountains don't change nor do the rivers, the lakes and the trees. Most of these things change over generations. Human perception changes. So does the face presented by changing seasons.

Although Meaghan and I did get snowed on when we were here before, there was little snow pack except at higher elevations. It was August. This visit is two full months earlier in the season. Creeks that were a trickle then are a rush now. The seven veils waterfall is actually seven water falls flowing over a broad rock face. Last time there was barely a trickle.

The biggest difference between then and now though is the sense of emptiness. There is a skeleton crew of staff getting the lodge at the lake ready, but asice from them we are the only people up here. No day-hikers, no campers, no parks staff. No one but us.

During the summer season, when the lodge is open and the campground is staffed by Parks Canada, a yellow school bus shuttles campers, lodge guests, and day hikers from the parking lot at Wapta Lake to Lake O'Hara. The trip is slow and follows a relatively unremarkable dirt road for 11 kilometres, steadily gaining elevation as it goes. For a hike it was rather boring. The weather wasn't great. A light drizzle fell by times and the sky was heavy with cloud.

As usual, by times we walked and talked, and by other times we walked and chewed our own thoughts. One of the few benefits of the road was the openness it offered. Bears were waking from their long winter slumber and the more warning we had of one's presence the better. As usual, we didn't see any. It was a couple of hours before we reached the campground at Lake O'Hara and we welcomed the chance to drop our bags in a shelter and recharge before exploring the surrounding area.

Our hike up to Lake Oesa was a delight, as much because of the solitary nature of our experience as it was because of the stunning beauty. I'll have only memories of the area because I left my camera behind. The entire valley, hemmed in by half a dozen mountains, was capped by clouds which slowly let loose a light dreizzle of rain. Despite the wather, or perhaps because of it, it was easy to forget we weren't really that far removed from civilization.

Standing in the quiet at the edge of Lake Oesa I was standing in a different world. A world without machines or lights or buzzers. No thumping of deep base coming from low riding cars. There were no clocks here. No need. The only schedule was that set by our stomachs and the passing of the sun. It was with regret we turned back the way we had come. Of note, we saw three mountain goats along the way. I was very excited.

The mountain goats were grazing high up on a slight ledge, though it is hard really to call it a ledge, more like a sliver on a steep slope. I'm not sure how they do it but they manage to survive where only birds should be. I do wish I had taken my camera. Sure, it was wet and I didn't want to risk damaging it, but hindsight being what it is the dampness was manageable. The area was surreal. So quiet. So still. The monochrome of grey and white of stone and snow was broken up by flashes of yellow and red lichen, and the discarded orange needles of larch trees fallen on snow.

Back at the campsite we made a fire. It was a frustratingly long and cumbersome process. The stove in the shelter is the tiniest little thing I've ever seen. It may very well have been made by Matchbox. It took us 45 minutes of diligence to get a fire going. Once the fire got going though, it got well.

As I write this I am lying on top of a picnic table in the shelter. I am tucked snuggly into my sleeping bag, I have a headlamp, and a portable mattress pads my underside. This is where I'll sleep tonight. My tent, the old one that is, not my Wanderer2, has become a miserable failure in the rain, despite a solid effort to revitalize its water repelling abilities. Had I slept in it tonight I would only have been able to occupy ... I wouldn't have been able to sleep in it. It was raining inside the tent.

I spent a day spraying the fly with silicone water-proofing, trying to bring it back to a usable point. I slathered the seams with sealer. I hoped it would work. I thought it would work. In the end it didn't work. The tent had served me well for years. It housed me on my first long journey east ten years ago. Then I was travelling at the whim of drivers open to the pleadings of my thumb and a sign directing me to Halifax. It housed Meaghan and I on our long trip back to Vancouver later that summer. That trip alone leaves me with an attachment to it that's hard to sever. Now it hangs in a bag from the ceiling in the basement. I'll give it up some day.

journey east: day 6

By this point we knew we weren't going to make it into the back country in any substantive way. We weren't prepared to tackle the Skoki Valley and most areas seemed, for the most part, to be closed. Besides, we now had a mission to complete: the recovery of Derek's Costanza-sized wallet.


Derek tucks his wallet safely away. The final image proving the existence of Derek's wallet. How could you lose something that big?

June 7, 2006

We returned to the trailhead at Emerald Lake Lodge at the end of a day of hiking left with the unresolved issue of what happened to Derek's wallet. Having taken yesterday off, not without twangs of regret, I was both delighted (sorry Derek) and dismayed to hear Derek had lost his wallet, likely at a point not too far from the high point of Yoho Pass. Credit cards aside, Derek was in the habit of travelling with a hefty wad of cash and he wanted it back. In this case the loss of the wallet meant he was travelling a few-hundred dollars lighter. Ouch.

So we headed out in the morning to hike to Yoho Pass. Again. At least for me it was a bit of a reprieve. On the other hand, for Greg and Derek, it was likely a most unwelcome turn of events. Definitely so for Derek. I can just imagine the sinking feeling he has in the pit of his stomach. The irony is that Greg saw Derek's wallet on a snowy patch next to a log Derek was resting on, but didn't say anything. It was more of a hindsight recollection that came to him when the two hikers returned to Field at the end of the day to stock up on goodies and junk and Derek realized his wallet wasn't with him.


Looking north from the alluvial plain toward Emerald Basin.

Today was the hottest, sunniest day yet. Crossing the alluvial plain deposited by Emerald Glacier it was apparent the hiking ahead for us was going to be hot. Spring melt water flowed heavier than it had in October, the last time we were through the area. Close to two hours of hiking lay ahead of us as we climbed up and across a skree slope. Begetation was slowly creeping up the incline of jumbled boulders, stone and gravel. We marched through a couple of budding stands of what looked like aspen. Fir trees dotted the slope and plains below.


Derek and Greg rest in the face of the President Range of mountains.

A litre of water was enough for all the hikes I had done to this point. Today I would use more. Walking up through the partial canopy of Yoho Pass the air cooled. It cooled because of the shade and because of the increasing amount of snow. Trudging through the crust of leftover winter snow I worked up a sweat. At times I was thigh deep in crystally white drifts littered with blackened pine needles and dirt. It was far from a winter wonderland but stunning none the less.

And it was a wonder to be there. I walked on ahead by myself while Greg and Derek searched futilely for the missing wallet. It was another few hundred metres to Yoho Lake and the campsite we had stayed at the previous summer. I came to the outhouse and soon was at the shore of the lake. The wind was gentle and I could hear birds in the forest.

I was the only soul in the area at it was wonderful. I wanted so badly to catch the colour of the water with my camera, but I don't think any image would do it justice. I looked at the water, thought about my half full bottle of water, and so wanted to drink straight from the lake. It looked so clear and pure. I didn't linger long. Time was short and I knew I should get back. As well the dreaded thought of meeting a hungry, grumpy bear rapidly played through my over-active imagination.

I talked to the woods on my way back through the crusty, unpredictable snow to where Greg and Derek were. They were still engaged in the great wallet hunt of '06. I was talking to the unseen creatures of the woods, letting them know I was there and hoping none would find my sound, or sight, appetizing. It was like I was walking through a stranger's campsite. I tried to walk casually.

We joined back up as a group, without the wallet, and headed back the way we had come. Once again we emerged onto the skree slope and it was like walking into an oven. We walked in the oven all the way back to the parking lot.


Greg and Derek heading back to the parking lot. Mt. Burgess in the background.

journey east: day 5

This was our third camping adventure together, and our second one to Yoho, though this time Yoho wasn't our intended destination. In a few months we'll gather once again for an outdoor excursion, this time in Newfoundland. These trips are as much about leisure as they are about hiking. It's hard to say what part of our WCT trip gave the greatest pleasure, wandering from campsite to campsite exploring beaches and old growth forest, traversing bridges, and climbing ladders, or the down time at the end of the day when we would build a fire, rest our weary feet, walk the beach and luxuriate in the notion of having nothing really to do until the next morning.

One of my favourite leisure activities, something that's carried through all three trips, is playing Yahtzee. Before the WCT adventure I hadn't played the game. What an introduction. Now, five dice always travel with us. Fortunately no one has lost an eye, yet, from hurled dice.


Not sure who Tracy is but this is one of my score sheets from Yoho 2006. The initials at the bottom indicate the winner of each game. Another sheet here.

June 6, 2006

An interesting date (6/6/6) considering the following. The last words from Greg this morning, aside from, "No, I don't want any trail mix," was, "If we're not back in the morning go to a warden for help, but not that guy who said 'you will die." Derek's last words were, "I forgot my socks:" I wonder how close to Field they were when Derek realized he'd forgotten them and turned back. It was a very brief return visit.

They are off to hike the Burgess Highline Trail. I hope all goes well. I've taken the day off. No hiking. My body is not feeling up to it. Besides sometimes goofing off is just what the soul needs.

I made a trip into Field around noon. It is hard to peg the size of the town, the permanent population that is. Bed and breakfasts abound. Along Kicking Horse Avenue most of the houses are b+bs, and many have vacancy signs in front. Stephen Avenue is the only other named street in the town. There are probably 80 houses in town, so population around 250? Why would a place with only five roads have both a First Avenue and a First Street. I imagine a point in the distant past when a debate rose over the naming of streets Field. Likely numbers were chosen because names were too political. However, the folks in Field might find added quaintness if they now changed the numbers to the names of local features, like Takakkaw (Falls) or Ogden (mount.) Mind you, there's something quaint about numbered streets in such a tiny place. Perhaps Field never became the town its original founders (likely the C.P.R) thought it would. And a more likely scenario is the town manager for the C.P.R. used numbers because it was easy.

I have spent most of the day puttering: washing pots; looking for stuff-I'm missing a nalgene bottle; sorting the seemingly endless volume of travel information I have, most of which will never be of use but I'll hold onto anyway, just in case; making tea and meals; and lounging in my easy chair.


Mt. Stephen's presence at the campground was hard to ignore.

The mid-afternoon sun is moving swiftly across the sky. I've been following a small spot of sun as it tracks across the campsite through a small hole in the forest canopy. In the past hour, while writing, I've moved a fair distance. I'll have to move again soon.

There is barely a whisper of a breeze. If I think about it I can feel cool drafts wrap around my forehead and gently tickle the hair on my arms. For the moment there are no trains rumbling through to Kicking Horse Pass and there aren't any trucks barreling down the Trans Canada Highway with their engine brakes thundering as they sweep west from the pass. It is quiet. The sound of the Kicking Horse River filters through the forest and birds above and me whistle. For most of the day so far magpies have been scouring the campsite looking for worms, grubs and free lunches. I left a bag of trail mix alone for five minutes and a magpie got into it. I watched one magpie pluck what looked like a caterpillar off the table. It stood on the ground and holding it in its beak beat the thing into submission. It was a ferocious mashing of caterpillar into earth. At some point it must have felt confident in having subdued its prey and flew off, presumably to eat in private.

So far it's been a gloriously lazy day. I think I'll read for a bit.

Some time passes.

In the six or so hours Greg and Derek were gone, and for an hour after they got back, I read 80 pages of a book. I note this only to set my progress against Greg's prolific ability to consume books at a rate probably four times that of me. I'm trying to write by firelight. It's tricky fumbling in the dark this way.


A typical end to the day.

Clearly, Derek and Greg returned from their hike. However, things didn't exactly go as planned. There was still a lot of snow on the Burgess Highline Trail and the two intrepid adventurers weren't able to get far enough along the trail to ever put their lives in danger-although it could be argued just puttering around the campsite is enough to put both in danger. Rebuffed by the snows of Burgess, they ventured off to cross Yoho Pass. Again, they were stymied by heavy snow pack. But before they finally turned around they had a rest and it is at this resting point where Greg and Derek both last witnessed the existence of Derek's Costanza sized wallet resting in the snow.


Some of the last photo evidence of Derek's wallet. I shudder to imagine the size of the raven or squirrel that may have made off with it.

Where it went from there will forever be the subject of great postulation and speculation involving rogue Grizzly bears and Kodiak sized ravens and squirrels. On a happy note, sorry Derek, it meant I would have an opportunity as well to hike up to Yoho Pass. We were destined the next day to retrace Derek and Greg's footsteps to see if we could find the missing wallet, or the fiendish beasts of the forest that may have absconded with it.

journey east: day 4

I wrote most of my journal entries at the end of the day. Some days, as was the case with my photography, I was fairly sparse in my thoughts and recollections. On other occasions, like this day, I had plenty to say and at times was perhaps a little too heavy with details. This day was one of those days. Sure, there are memorable moments recorded here, but there is also plenty of the mundane. It strikes me that the combination of photos and words work well together to keep me refreshed of what was memorable for the day. They augment each other, and the photos especially trigger memories of the original condition of the moment.

June 5, 2006

Rain is falling. We tried to put up with it at the campsite for awhile but finally relented. We are now comfortably ensconced in a shelter with a fire going in the stove and are playing Yahtzee. We are into our fourth game and already a couple of Yahtzees have been rolled. "Yahtzee!"

Greg has apparently rejected Blue Highways and in turn is reading a book Derek brought: Journal of the Dead, by Jason Kersten. Apparently it starts with a murder. In the time it has taken to play three and a half games Greg has read 72 pages. Just moments ago he declared, "I'm hooked,"and promptly buried his face once again in the book.

Greg is a reading prodigy (it sounds like I'm talking about a three year old.) He fills a lot of his down time with reading. The Journal of the Dead will be done by tomorrow and he'll want more. I'll serve up Cloud Atlas and A Year in the Merde to him. One will surely grab his attention. He reads in the morning between waking and hiking. As soon as we return from a hike he picks up a book and rarely puts it down until he goes to bed. It is quite remarkable actually. Given the opportunity, I drink scotch and beer, and smoke cigarettes and pot. Greg reads. That is his vice, and cigarettes, but we won't get into that.

We climbed a long straight ridge today that climbed the spine of a timber draped furrow of stone. Onward and upward we went. The nature of the landscape changed step by step. The views expanded as we climbed, but the details got lost in the scale of the landscape as we neared the top.

Once again there were plenty of flowers. No mountain lilies though. There were daisy like flowers and wonderful purple flowers whose name I should know but don't. I had seen them at Paget Peak, but not nearly as plentiful.


someday I'll learn the name of this flower.

So much opportunity to take photos. I took wide-angle shots of mountain ranges flanking long green valleys, and spent plenty of time at ground level taking photos of flowers. And I took photos of Derek and Greg and the land we hiked in, and what a wonder it was to wander the area.

There were times though, as we crept our way to the top, that tedium led me to count my paces, 500 at a time. Gotta love mental dreariness while surrounded by nature. Hiking is a time for thinking and a litany of thoughts always course through my mind, just sometimes these thoughts are more riveting than others. Books aimed at enlightening foolhardy adventurers willing to risk a journey into the outdoors, like strolling along the paved paths of Lake Louise, advise lots of noise making. They suggest talking so the bears hear you coming. Right. Does this also work for hungry cougars? Why do I want to tell predators were I am? Besides, people can't sustain continuous conversation for five-hour periods. We hike in silence for long stretches. Our thin line of three hikers gets drawn out, but rarely out of earshot.

In the Guide to the Rocky Mountain Parks are instructions on what to do in a bear encounter. What you do depends on, according to the guide, what mood the bear is in. Is it defensive? Protective? How am I supposed to know? It's a bear. I always know where my bear spray is. I toy with the trigger as I walk. I feel it. I know there will only be bad with it in the end. More likely than not Greg or Derek or both will stumble bleary eyed from the woods as a result of an itchy trigger finger. And to think we each have a can of it. Now that I think about it I sort of feel sorry for the bear that runs afoul of us. And I guess it's three times as likely there will be some sort of horrible eye-watering accident.

Our trip up Mt. Hunter was on our sunniest day to date. One of the things I like about hiking in the mountains, especially at higher elevations, is the sparseness of the forest canopy. Times in the directness of hot summer sun are tempered with moments of relief in the shade. It makes for a pleasant hike. Mt. Hunter was one of those hikes. And though it wasn't the longest hike we've done, it was notable for its steady, plodding progress into the sky.

Mt. Hunter is tucked just inside the western boundary of Yoho National Park. Midway along the ridge to its summit is a 10 metre tall fire tower. A ladder leading up to the cabin at the top of the tower beckons to be climbed. For added enticement, like a lure for the weak, a crude hand-crafted log ladder was propped in the two metre gap between the ground and the bottom rung of the steel tower's ladder. How could I not climb it? There was a pretty good wind blowing and the steel was cold. At the top of the ladder a hatch was pushed to the side, it's latch smashed. The paneless windows were great for photos and lousy for instilling any sense of security, not to mention, again, the gaping hole in the middle of the three by three metre octagonal floor.


view from the fire tower.

But the view. 360 degrees off mountains and valleys, and the long ridge we were travelling. Our ultimate destination loomed to the north, set atop a sheer cliff at least 100 metres high. In the valley below large swaths of the forest were streaked red, presumably the result of a pine beetle infestation. As sad as the effect the Mountain Pine Beetle has had on B.C.'s forest industry, the landscape in this area is now offered with colours as vibrant and varied as those found in the fall in the maritimes. Just trying to make some lemonade.

Near the base of the fire tower was a cabin with a deck where we lounged about in the sun for awhile. Then we headed off on the last push to the top. 2,600 metres from one fire lookout to the next. It was more of the same to follow. Ever expansive vistas, more flowers, and lots of trees, though the type was different. The grasses near the bottom of the mountain gave way to yew-like shrubs. Each footstep was a plodding footstep, higher up trailing switchbacks until the top was reached. we probably could have gone higher, but the trail ended and there didn't seem much to go to, other than the top, wherever that was. From the second lookout there wasn't a visible peak.

There was a small cabin at the second lookout and three concrete pilings off to the side. I wonder what used to be mounted there. A tree grew where it looked like a fourth piling should have been to complete a square. Again, we lounged on the deck of the cabin. It was the third time in two days a cabin had served such a useful purpose. The park's vigilance for forest fires used to be pretty intense. It probably still is, but human eyes on every peak aren't needed anymore. It's nice the cabins have been repurposed. No fees, no service.

The rests are always nice. We stopped three times along the way to ease our feet and fill our bellies with food and water. Nothing is more pleasant than sitting on a rock, while being washed over by a gentle warm breeze. And the absence of sounds of human activity, like cars and trucks and radios and machinery is a well earned moment of bliss.

What took three hours to climb we descended in 45 minutes. Not far from the top we came across three mountain bikers and a dog headed to the top. One of the girls hushed at us not to tell. I thought she meant the dog of its leash. She was more concerned about mountain biking in a no mountain biking zone. Shame on them. Whatever, it didn't seem like there were hordes of mountain bikers headed for Mt. Hunter. The trail remained in good condition. I was surprised they didn't pass us on the way down.

At the bottom, we checked for flattened coins. A few hundred metres from the trailhead the path crosses train tracks. I left a looney, Greg left a dime and a quarter (not sure how he'll equitably split them with Ben and Sam,) and Derek left three pennies all in a row. All six coins were sufficiently flat and two of Derek's pennies were fused together.


Greg straddles the rail where he's left his coins. Derek wonders how he could cause a train wreck. John takes the picture.

journey east: day 3

June 4, 2006


We've stopped for a moment near the summit of Paget Peak. There is an old fire lookout here that dates back to 1944. It is the oldest surviving fire lookout in the Rocky Mountain national parks.

My left knee is bothering me today and my body is clearly not in the same shape it used to be in, so the hike to this point has been a slow, plodding affair. Greg and Derek have continued on higher, presumably to reach the summit. 2,565 metres.

Despite overcast skies the view from the lookout is grand. To the west, looking back toward Field and the town's namesake mountain, is a range of mountains hemmed in by clouds. A dark ceiling for a magnificent view. To the east is Alberta and the scars of the Lake Louise ski area are visible on the side of a mountain. Beyond, the beginning of the Front Ranges, starting with the Skoki Valley. We're still unsure about the prospect of getting into the valley, but so far the news isn't good. There's a lot of snow on the ground and we just don't have the right equipment.

In front of me, to the south, beyond the abyss formed by the Kicking Horse Pass, stand the mountains that guide Cataract Brook on its short journey down from Lake O'Hara. Lake O'Hara is perhaps the loveliest camping and hiking area in all of Yoho.

Six or seven hours have passed since arriving at Paget Peak. We hiked most of the way back down and then humped over to Sherbrooke Lake. Along the way we came across some bear scat. We stopped for a moment. It was deposited right in the middle of the trail. Was this lump of seed speckled scat a warning? We looked at the scat. We looked at each other. We looked at the scat some more, scanning for signs of freshness, like steam wafting off it. None were willing to stick a finger in it to check for warmth.

I took plenty of photos today. Flowers, lichen, Greg and Derek, mountains, lakes, etc. Mountain Lilies, as I learned they are called today, are these delicate, sad, yellow flowers that grow in abundance on Paget Peak. Barely the width of a two-dollar coin Mountain Lilies peppered the side of the mountain, growing thicker as we climbed higher. Shortly after we arrived at the fire lookout a man came down from the mountain who had been taking photos of the flowers. He was pretty excited. He said this was supposed to be the best spot in the Rockies to take photos of Mountain Lilies.

Back at camp a fire burns and the meager light left to write by is quickly fading to non-existent. Derek is staring submissively at the fire, for the time being given in to a primal connection with flame.

Maybe later we'll play Yahtzee.

On the way back to camp we stopped at the Yoho Brothers Trading Post. Greg commented that the girl working there probably muttered something nasty under her breath: great, here come these dirty losers again. I left with Coffee, orange juice and a bag of Doritos.


mmmmm, what a yummy lifestyle we maintain.

Aside from dozens of trains going through town every day, and Yoho Brothers, what excuse for existence does Field have? Why is it here and what is the lifestyle of those who live here? Are they Fielders? Fieldites? Fieldonians? I should look into it.

Open for discussion today: Blumkin and felching- you don't want to know details; the naming of mountains - and all the fighting that accompanies the activity, not to mention the rabid consulting of the map to see who got the name right; driving habits; GT talked about working jobs to the limit , all consuming and some of the requisite familial battles that went with the pace; Derek explained forensic findings from the battle of Little Big Horn - Custer's last stand didn't happen quite the way the conventional lore would have us believe.

Dusk has long passed into deep night. I'm watching over the last embers of the fire and again, echoing across the valley, the lonesome sound of locomotives hauling tonnes of rolling stock and goods eastward.

Gentle drops of rain are falling, thus the change in pen. My other pen, a uni-ball vision, doesn't stand up well to rain. The ink runs. That's a hard lesson I learned at the Eagleridge Bluffs protest last week as evidenced by the blurred ( and apparently incorrect) cut line written at the back of this book.

Greg and Derek went to bed a while ago. I done' ever like to see a day end, especially a day spent in the mountains. Mountains are a basic presence in my life. My perception of the world, at a very basic level, is similar to my perception of mountains. Mountains are indelibly rooted in time. When looking at the striated layers of stone that make each mountain distinct in shape and colour, the only possible explanation for their existence is that of patient abiding. How can stone be anything but patient? How can I?

When I look at a mountain I want to be on that mountain. I am not driven by any urge of conquest or achievement. I just want to see what the mountain sees. Each peak's view is different. Skree slopes battle with fledgling forests and trees creating grey and green skirts, each mountain's garb slightly different. From top to bottom, mountains feed my curiosity and I know I'll be back one day to climb them some more.

It was nice to relax at the Paget Peak fire lookout. Sure, I missed the grand view from the summit, an opportunity rarely passed up, but I just wasn't feeling a push to the top in me that day. Derek and Greg also had a rest when they returned to the shelter. It gave a great opportunity to capture the job Greg did on his glasses.



"you should see the other guy."

journey east: day 2

June 3, 2006

It rained a fair amount last night. The rain wasn't hard, just steady. By the time I roused myself though, the sky seemed to have given its all. As a I crawled from the tent, which stood quite proudly in denying the rain entrance to the cavernous inner-sanctum, sunlight was bathing the eastern face of Mt. Field. The sun stayed throughout the day, sharing the sky by times in equal measure with fluffy white clouds.

GT and I headed out almost immediately on foot for Field, four kilometres west along the Trans Canada Highway. GT plodded along the shoulder of the highway while I wandered and weaved my way parallel to him along the former flood plain of tthe Kicking Horse River. The part I was on is cut off from the river by the raised roadbed of the TCH.

I wish I could name the plants growing in this hard scrabble sediment. I recognized fireweed though, and spent much of our journey with my eye to the ground, looking for objects to take photos of.


paintbrush, not fireweed as I thought it was.

I was motivated by more than just exploration to take the less beaten path to Field: the 18-wheelers on the highway scared the crap out of me. Barely ever more than a minute passed between trucks, sometimes four or more in a row, blasting past at 100 kilometres an hour. I couldn't take it; made me jumpy. White was the ubiquitous cab colour of choice.

We were back at the campsite by 10:30 and Derek told me of the 'incident'. I had left a bag of six dice on the picnic table. A raven or magpie got to it, opened the bag, and scattered the contents across to campsites. Now we only have five dice. Somewhere in a magpies garden a blue die waits to be played with.

The prospects are not good for back-country adventure in the Skoki Valley around Lake Louise, the main target of our trip. So we humped off to Emerald lake this afternoon. I think I hurt myself. I really should be better prepared for these adventures. Tomorrow will have to be paced.

We walked around Emerald Lake and cut up and over to Emerald Basin. No snowball fights. 62 healthy piles of deer droppings along the last open section of the trail.

There were long periods of silent walking in the woods today. Then, a flurry of conversation would babble through the trees, and as suddenly as it started the walk dropped back to silence. I wonder which one of us most often has the last word?

two samples of conversation:

• How many ways are there to execute a person? GT talked about a book he flicked through at the grocery store the other day. 107 ways to execute a person, or something to that effect. I am not sure how much time he spent 'flicking' through the book, but he was able to ramble off an exhaustive list of man's ability to be cruel to his fellow man. Sewn into the body of a dead donkey? Ewww.
• Derek is reading a Pierre Berton book, Vimy. I really should read more. Newspapaers and web-sites only marginally help me understand the world around me. And those two sources occupy a substantial amount of my time.

At the end of our hike we stopped at a cluster of interpretive signs at the edge of the lake near Emerald Lodge. English and French side by side, facing Emerald Lake, Burgess Mountain, Mt. Wapta, Mt. Field and the Burgess Shale. The signs tell the story of the discovery of the Burgess Shale and its significance.

On the way back to camp we startled a Moose, much to the chagrin of the people in the RV pulled off to the side watching it.

Chili Tortilla with Beef for dinner. Mmmm, a hearty reconstituted meal. I'll wind down and see what is on for tomorrow.

This trip deserves to be shared with Meaghan. In a sense, the person to whom I write is Meaghan. I expect she'll see me in the words. Beyond the journal, postcards are little wee condensed messages. I am writing to her, and to my friends I've left behind and those I'm driving toward.

GT sat on his glasses. The shearing of the left arm from the frames made a popping sound, or was that the sound of the lenses slapping against the surface of the stump he had left them on. A minor set back.

"Asshole, prick," exclaimed GT upon learning I had written about his unfortunate event. Fuck, how Derek and I laughed. It was hard not to.

Another night, another fire. The odd star flickers through gaps in the thin forest canopy. The moon has sunk behind Mt. Field. I can hear water flowing in the distance. Not far away a creek. I don't know the creek's name, if it has one. It doesn't matter. Name or not, the water keeps flowing.

Beyond the creek, in distance and volume, a train shudders along the left bank of the Kicking Horse River. Rails hug the cliffside. The diesel's drone disappears, fades really, as it passes into the tunnel. During our morning walk to Field I watched three trains head east. At the head of one of the trains four engines hauled cars stretching a kilometre. Another train had two locomotives at the the frontt and one puching from the rear. More will pass through the valley and at some point tonight I'll wake to the sound of the engines drone.

Update on the Moon: I must have lost it in the clouds earlier because it is still visible and has a way yet to go before sinking behind Mt. Field.

It was a good day of hiking, both in the morning to Field, and in the afternoon around Emerald Lake and up into the Emerald basin.

Before heading to Emerald Lake we stopped in at the Parks Canada office in Field. One of the men who works there has a fairly sarcastic edge to the way he deals with you. It works okay with me, but I could see it rubbing some people the wrong way. GT thought he'd like to hike Burgess Pass trail, a route we took the previous fall. Parks Canada guy's response was simple: "you will die." Hmmm. We opted for Emerald Basin.

But getting to Emerald Basin wasn't as simple as it sounds. Emerald glacier snakes along the President's Range of mountains a few kilometres to the north of Emerald Lake. Over the years the run-off from the glacier has formed an alluvial fan that leads to the shore of Emerald Lake. Somewhere, while crossing the rocky wasteland of the alluvial fan, we took a wrong turn and it was many hundreds of metres before we fully realized our error. A quick backtrack and we were back on course.


Derek and GT learn we've erred in our ways.

journey east

June 2, 2006

I'm not sure how far we travelled today. I'll look in the morning.
GT and I had a 9:30 departure from North Vancouver and a 6:30 arrival at the campground in Yoho. We stopped along the way: in Kamloops for coffee and GT had to pee; in Revelstoke for chili for me and a sandwich for GT at Tim Horton's, and we got two donuts, and I had to pee this time, and we needed gas, and GT and I both needed something to drink; in Golden for beer, ice and socks. The socks were for GT.

Funny he would wait until Golden to mention his sock deficiency. It was late in the day and choice in Golden was probably not going to be great. I predicted a Saan department store, and sure enough we found one on the way out of town. We were the only customers in the store and were matched one-to-one by staff.

Finally, around 6:30 in the evening we arrived in Field and set up camp at Kickinghorse campground. Derek arrived shortly after we did. We pitched our tents and tonight I will christen my MEC Wanderer2. I wish Meaghan was here.


On the fifth try we got a fire going. The wood in the lot was a little damp, so having a fire log helped as a last resort.

It's late now. In the tent listening to train running the CP line west to east. It's started to rain. The pattering of drops at the fly magnified like a drum. Minutes pass and the trembling of the engine pauses - passing into the first corkscrew of the spiral tunnel at the base of Mt. Stephen.

Our third annual excursion coincided with my permanent departure from Vancouver. I've made the trip to Field many times and didn't feel inclined to take any photos along the way. The one above is one of two taken that day. For my entire trip east there were only two other days I didn't take photos. One would be in a few days, while camping in Yoho, and the other on the long haul to Winnipeg.

GT is a good person to travel with. No hassle. He slept a good chunk of the way up. I still giggle at the thought of letting the car drift onto the rumble strips at the road's shoulder while screaming "we're all gonna die, we're all gonna die." I never actually screwed up the courage to do it. GT is a pretty reasonable person, but when faced with death who knows what a man is capable of. Now I wish I had done it. The car upholstery is Scotch Guarded.

Along the Coquihalla highway we saw a black bear sitting on a hill at the side of the road. It was watching the traffic from just the other side of a wildlife fence. Although cruel, it would have been a great opportunity to test the effectiveness of our bear spray.